Manifest

by Artist Arthur

  The footsteps stop.

  No such luck for me.

  There’s a brisk knock at my door.

  “Krystal. We’re going out to dinner tonight. Be downstairs in fifteen minutes.”

  Gerald’s voice is deep, dripping with authority. My dad never spoke to me in that tone. I hate it when Gerald does. So I don’t say anything.

  Ricky is still standing close, staring at me with a funny look on his face.

  “Krystal? Did you hear me? I know you’re not asleep because I just heard you talking. Get off the cell phone and let’s go.”

  He knocks on the door one more time then I hear him turning the knob. I move quickly, lifting a foot to stomp over the middle of my bed to get to the door before he has a chance to come inside. I don’t want him to see there’s a boy in my room.

  Just as the door swings open I’m right on the other side, looking up into eyes darker than the night sky, a head full of thick black hair, gray at the temples. His mustache is thick, too, totally covering his top lip. He’s looking at me sternly with one hand on the doorknob and the other straddling the top part of the door.

  I can’t stand him. From the first day Janet brought him to our little apartment I knew I’d never like him. His beady little eyes spelled “fake wannabe” clearly. I don’t know why Janet couldn’t see it. Maybe she didn’t want to. I guess that means I did want to see it, like maybe I just wasn’t going to like any man with Janet besides my dad. Doesn’t matter—I don’t like him and he seems to like me even less.

  “Fifteen minutes,” he says when he sees me.

  I nod. I don’t talk to him any more than I talk to Janet. Neither one of them is on my favorite person list right now. Gerald’s actually at the very bottom of the list.

  “You’re not a mute. Answer me when I speak to you.”

  I’m not a mute but I’m definitely tired of him bossing me around. He is not my father.

  “Krystal,” he says in a warning tone.

  “I heard you,” I finally say through clenched teeth.

  He frowns. I think he wants to say something else, probably something really rude and mean to me, but he doesn’t.

  “Fifteen minutes,” is all he mutters.

  I push the door until it slams again, then turn and press my back against it. For a minute I close my eyes and when I open them again it’s to see Ricky standing right in front of me.

  You handled that well.

  He’s being sarcastic and I’m definitely not in the mood. “Mind your own business,” I snap.

  Maybe you just need to loosen up, stop being so defensive all the time. Not everybody’s out to get you.

  “I don’t think they are,” I lie. That’s exactly what I think. Or rather, I think everybody has an ulterior motive, which usually takes them out of my life. So if I’m meant to be alone then why not just start out with that goal? Why even bother taking a chance?

  I’m just about to say that but in the next second he’s moving closer to me like the men do in movies. His head’s kind of tilted as he approaches, his eyes not really looking at mine. I think he’s looking at my mouth. Like he’s going to kiss me. But that’s not possible. He can’t kiss me.

  I’ve never been kissed.

  Still, I think I might like it…if Ricky is my first.

  six

  There are two hotels in Lincoln—one that only rich people can afford to stay in and one that normal people like me and my father can afford to stay in.

  Tonight we’re eating at Solange. It’s the ritzy restaurant with food I can’t pronounce let alone eat on the menu. It’s located on the lobby floor of the Nokland Hotel—the one that rich people can afford.

  I guess this is what’s meant by marrying up. In that case, Janet did well for herself. My father draws a comic strip that appears in lots of different newspapers, including the New York Daily News. That wasn’t glamorous to Janet, but to me, I thought it was like having my own personal celebrity. Janet always said my father needed to grow up.

  So a month ago she married Gerald. He moved us out of the apartment we were renting down by the lake and into a four-bedroom, three-bath house that looked more like a bed-and-breakfast than a home. He told Janet she didn’t need to work, which I think Janet really liked. In New York she worked at Macy’s doing makeup at the Clinique counter. That’s all she said she could do since she never graduated from college. A fact I sometimes felt she was trying to blame on me. But I don’t even know how she’d fix her mouth to say that was my fault. I didn’t ask to be born and I’m sure my father didn’t force her to have sex. Maybe she should have taken the advice she always gave me about unprotected sex.

  Maybe those thoughts are rude or out of line. But they’re my thoughts so nobody can censor them.

  Anyway, we’re at the restaurant and Gerald is walking with his shoulders back and his nose tilted high, like if he lowers it he might smell something he doesn’t like. Janet’s right behind him and I’m behind her. They sit and I follow. They pick up their menus and I stare straight ahead, out the window that stretches over the whole wall on the other side of the room.

  It’s dark outside; we didn’t leave in fifteen minutes as Gerald had originally said. Instead we’d had to wait for Janet to change into “something more suitable for going out.” She really has changed since moving to this small town and hooking up with this big idiot. She’d had on jeans, a blouse and nice open-toed shoes. She looked fine to me. There was really no need for her to change. But Gerald is pleased that she did because the long cream-colored skirt and peach blouse she is wearing goes a lot better with his beige suit and burnt orange tie. It is all about “the look” with them now.

  I still have on the jeans I’d worn to school and a T-shirt. Gerald had frowned at me and was about to say something when I saw Janet put a hand on his arm and shake her head. The movement said I was a lost cause.

  She is probably right.

  “Look, Krys, they have chicken on the menu,” Janet says all bright and smiley. She’s happy to be here, probably happy that all three of us are out looking like a real family.

  I try not to be so sulky by sitting up in the chair and picking up the menu. But as I read, the gloom of my normal mood returns and I see the chicken she’s referring to is a chicken tender meal in the lower corner of the menu titled “Kids’ Meals.”

  So now I’m a “kid”? A fifteen-year-old, five-foot-four, with every bit of an A cup breasts, kid. I drop the menu as if it were burning my fingers. “I don’t like chicken fingers.”

  “Well, I know how much you like fried chicken so I figured this would be the same.”

  Janet rarely eats meat; that’s probably why she thinks fried chicken and processed chicken tenders are the same thing.

  “Not,” I say solemnly.

  “Then order something else,” Gerald says quickly. Sternly. I’m getting on his nerves, like I always do.

  That’s just fine because he gets on my nerves, too. If Janet hadn’t married him maybe she’d get back with my dad. Speaking of which, I push my chair back and get ready to stand.

  “Where are you going?” Janet asks before I can make my getaway.

  “Bathroom,” I lie quickly.

  “The proper way is to ask to be excused. You’re old enough that by now you should be using better manners.”

  My eyes cut fast to Gerald. There are so many words rolling through my head that I’d like to say to him. But—unlike what he thinks—I do have manners. I’m not about to cuss out my mother’s new husband, not in a crowded restaurant at least.

  “I need to be excused to go to the restroom. Do you want to risk not giving me permission, Gerald?” My lips squeeze tightly together after I speak. That’s the only way I can hold in the rest of what I want to say.

  “Mr. Gerald,” he reminds me that this is what he’d like to be called.

  I smile sweetly and as phony as Clay Aiken when he first denied being gay. “Mr. Gerald.”

  “Go ahead. Your moth
er will order something for you. Something much healthier than fried chicken or chicken fingers or whatever the two of you were discussing.”

  My eyes close to tiny slits. I know because my vision is sliced thin. I’m so mad I want to swing on him. Yes, I want to hit my stepfather. I’m sure there are millions of other teens in the world who can relate to that feeling. Unfortunately, none of them are standing here with me to offer moral support, so Janet stands, putting a hand on my arm.

  “Are you okay, baby? Do you need me to go with you?”

  “What?” I frown at her. “No. I don’t need an escort. I’m fine.”

  “Would you like me to order for you?” Janet asks, although Gerald has already spoken.

  I’ve already turned to leave and wave my hand back in her direction. “Fine. Whatever.”

  I should have stayed home, in my room, by myself. This is too much, too soon. I don’t want to be out with them like we are a happy family. Because we aren’t. I’m definitely not. I hate living in Lincoln. I hate that my parents are divorced and with every passing day I hate Gerald.

  While I’m walking checking off my mental list of things I hate about my life I’m reaching into my pocket for my phone. With one hand I hit the buttons that will dial my father’s house. I put the phone to my ear, waiting for him to answer, hoping he’ll pick up and that the answer to my next question will be yes.

  Instead I hear, “You’ve reached Calvin Bentley. I’m not available to take your call right now, so leave your name, number and a brief message and I’ll get back to you. Peace.”

  Peace?

  Since when does Daddy say that? Doesn’t matter, there’s definitely no peace in my life.

  “Hey, Daddy, it’s me, Krystal,” I speak into the phone after it beeps for me to leave a message. I don’t know why I’m telling him who I am. He only has one daughter. “Um, can you call me back as soon as you get this message? It’s really important.” I say goodbye and flip the phone shut, then head toward the bathroom.

  I figure I’d better make it look good. Knowing Gerald, he’d probably followed me out here. But just as I’m about to go in the bathroom door I hear voices to my right.

  The restaurant is on an angle, at the end of a long hallway coming from the lobby of the hotel. The restrooms are along the right side at the end of the hall. There’s a T shape at the end so I can either go left or right. Left will lead me into the bathrooms, right will lead down a smaller hall and to the door marked Exit.

  That’s where the voices are coming from.

  Did you tell her everything? This is a female voice, the one that first stopped me.

  I figure it’s none of my business and I move to make the left turn when the next voice halts my steps.

  No. Not yet. She needs time to get used to the idea first.

  Ricky?

  Now I know I haven’t been talking to this guy—no, this ghost—for long. One day to be precise. So I shouldn’t just know his voice even without seeing him. But I do. I think I even hear it in my sleep.

  I’m walking toward that exit door even though my mind is screaming this is a bad idea.

  What’s there to get used to? If she can hear you, she can help us.

  Help us? Did this chick just say “us”?

  Anger and curiosity brewing together isn’t such a good mix. So when the flat of my hand pushes the door open, the shocked look on their faces could only have mirrored the one on mine.

  There they are, near the steps. Ricky in his jeans and T-shirt and some girl—some girl ghost, as evidenced by her transparent appearance—with short curly hair and wearing way too much makeup.

  They both stare at me as I stare at them, a standoff like they have on TV when the dead body is found and the wife’s standing over him with blood on her hands.

  Krystal? Ricky speaks first.

  “Who is she?” I speak next.

  Trina.

  His girlfriend.

  They both speak together.

  seven

  I am out of that hallway so fast a breeze probably formed behind me. I can still hear Ricky calling my name but I can’t see him.

  Tears are stinging my eyes so seeing isn’t a high probability. Why I am about to cry I don’t know. Ricky’s not my boyfriend so I shouldn’t care if he has a girlfriend. My feelings shouldn’t be hurt. I shouldn’t feel betrayed. But I do. Again.

  I make it back to the table and Janet is immediately up and at my side. I lift a hand, halting her steps. “I’m fine. Just tired. Can we hurry up and eat so I can go home?”

  On the one side of me, still-sitting Gerald is frowning. On the other side, Janet’s expression goes from worried to saddened and I feel a pinch of guilt, knowing that it’s my fault.

  Right about now I don’t even care.

  I’m too busy wondering if I got played by a ghost.

  Even the thought is stupid and I shiver as I think it. What’s wrong with me? Why do I even hear or see these spirits? This is so crazy I can’t believe it, let alone expect anybody else to believe it. So even though I know Janet wants to know what’s wrong with me, I can never tell her. Not that I desperately want her and Daddy to get back together and definitely not that I think I’m losing my mind because I see dead people.

  I manage to get through dinner without crying and/or throwing up. The more I think about the fact that I was actually jealous at seeing two ghosts together, the more I feel sick. Maybe I need to be medicated or, worse, sent to a mental institution.

  Those thoughts run through my mind as I also worry over the fact that Daddy hasn’t returned my call. I haven’t talked to him in a couple of weeks. Where is he?

  The air is humid and thick. It’s nighttime so it should be cooler. Just yesterday it was so chilly I almost put on a jacket. The weather here is so strange.

  I climb the stairs and go to my room the moment we get back from dinner, but then I don’t want to stay in my room. I am afraid Ricky will come back.

  So when Gerald and Janet are closed in their bedroom probably doing things that would make me want to gouge my eyes out, I sneak downstairs and out the back door to sit on the patio.

  Our house faces some trees and just past the trees is a small beach, then endless water. In the distance I hear the waves. Closing my eyes, I try to concentrate on the soothing sounds and for a minute or so it works.

  Then there’s moaning, like someone’s in pain. It’s my plan to ignore the moan because for some reason I think it’s not really happening.

  Denial at its best.

  Unfortunately, it persists and my eyes creep open. Silent prayers are going up to the heavens that I’m still alone out here. Opening my eyes all the way, I sigh. Prayer works.

  Or maybe not.

  The sound is getting louder, turning into maybe a cry. I sit up in the chair and decide I’m just going to the end of our yard to see what’s going on. My wobbly legs take me a little farther until I’m standing on the beach.

  The water looks dark, like a shiny piece of black material. There’s no moon out and no stars. A few minutes ago—back on the patio—I was hot. Now I fold my arms over my chest and fight against chattering teeth.

  The cry echoes in the air from behind me. I turn quickly, see the tall woman in the long white gown and fall flat on my butt.

  Help me, she says, reaching her hands out to me. My gaze follows the length of her arms to the tight bodice of her gown, up her neck and to her face—to her half face. The other half is completely rotted. The scream that ripples through me should have been loud and eardrum shattering but just then a huge wave comes rolling in. From the corner of my eye I see it building and know that when it comes crashing down it will take me with it. So I roll in the sand, get to my knees then struggle to stand. Breaking into a run, I refuse to look back. Heading straight for the house, I go upstairs to my room where I close and lock my door.

  My chest’s heaving as I sit on the floor trying to catch my breath. I wonder if a lock and a fear as big as the continent
would keep that woman and any other ghosts away.

  Oh, God, I hope so.

  Sleep hadn’t come easy but it finally came and I didn’t dream, thank goodness. I don’t think I could have handled another traumatic experience like a nightmare.

  It’s Sunday and I know Janet isn’t going to church. She hasn’t been since we left New York, which also means I haven’t been either. Grandma Bentley would have a heart attack if she knew that.

  Hey, maybe that’s what I needed—Jesus or an exorcism.

  You need to get up out of this bed. It’s almost noon.

  I jump at the sound of his voice, immediately pulling the covers up to my chest.

  “Get out!” I yell, not loud enough for anybody to come running to my room full of questions. But at just the right tone so he can tell I’m serious.

  Calm down. You’re all uptight first thing on a Sunday morning.

  “Uptight!” I say, sitting up in my bed, forgetting all about the sheets until I see his gaze drop down.

  I don’t have big breasts but they’re still there and they’re just barely covered by a thin tank top. I pull the sheet up again and tuck it under my armpits. “Listen, I don’t know what type of game you’re playing but I’m not in the mood. In fact, I think you and your girlfriend need to find somebody else to help you.”

  He laughs but I don’t see what’s so funny.

  “Just get out of my room. Out of my life.” I sigh heavily then fall back onto my pillows. “Isn’t my life bad enough without dead people waltzing into it?”

  Why do you think your life is so bad? From where I’m standing, you’ve got it all. A great house near the water, almost near the Richies. You have your mother and your stepdad living with you, taking you out to dinner and all that wholesome family stuff. What could you possibly have to complain about?

  I turn my head toward the sound of his voice. He’s standing to the right of my bed, in front of the nightstand with my clock radio and lamp.

  “You have no idea what my life is really like. All this,” I say, waving my arm toward everything in the room, “is like a stage, set up for the performance of a lifetime. But happily ever after isn’t in my future. I’m definitely no Cinderella.”